Monday, September 20, 2010

3-D Printing Spurs a Manufacturing Revolution

 you are such an inspiration Scott....  i wish you were still living in Pittsburgh and teaching design...


Friday, September 17, 2010

dadaist friendship.....

 . We have always made mistakes, but the greatest mistakes are the poems we have written....

. DADA is neither madness, nor wisdom, nor irony, look at me, dear bourgeois.

. We are not naive 
. We are successive
. We are exclusive
. We are not simpletons
                 and we are perfectly capable of an intelligent discussion

Tristan Tzara

dadaist siir

To Make A Dadist Poem
Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though 
unappreciated by the vulgar herd.

Tristan Tzara 

modern siir- serbest siir

ÖzeLLikLeri :

-DiLi sade ve anLaşıLırdır.
-Modern şiirde nazım birimi mısradır ; fakat beyitLer , dörtLükLer ve bentLerLe de şiirLer yazıLabiLir.
-Modern şiirde
öLçü serbesttir.
-Modern şiirLerde kafiye ve rediften ziyade
ses zenginLiğine önem veriLir; fakat şair isterse bunLarı kuLLanabiLir..
-Modern şiirde konu sınırsızdır.
Her şey şiirin konusu oLabiLir
-Modern şiirde beLLi bir nazım şekLi yoktur; fakat sone ve terzarima gibi nazım şekiLLeri Batı edebiyatından aLınıp kuLLanıLmıştır.
-Modern şiir
herkese (haLka ve yüksek zümreye) hitap edebiLir..

Wednesday, September 8, 2010


You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz,
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my
Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been sacred of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You----

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a
Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two---
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.